“Thank you for all your help, Gourd.”

“Eh, no worries.” The seaman absently scratched at his scraggly beard. He had a strong physique with his large arms and toned shoulders, but no one would mistake him for a fighter. Or at least, not a very good one. It was the way he moved. Clumsy and flat-footed. The man would trip over his own feet trying to dodge an attacker. Not to mention his abysmal lack of awareness.

When he was younger, Orum would have sneered at the man’s existence and ignored him. The culture of the vraekiri only had time for those on the road to power. Those that didn’t pursue strength were considered fools, willing prey in a world full of predators.

Life taught Orum that strength was not all the world had to offer. Or rather, that he should not be so single-minded in pursuing it. Monsters like Morgene walked that road. The predators of the world had chewed him up with their sharp teeth and spat him out, letting him live another day so they could take more bites out of him later.

Adversity forged character. Pressure was necessary to forge the strongest wills but too much could break even legendary warriors. Orum had been close to breaking. Not his body. The physical affinity was strong. So long as he had mana, he would remain whole.

It was his mind that teetered on the edge of oblivion. His dogged pursuit of victory over his wife had turned him into a being of singular purpose. He ate so he would have energy to fight. He slept so that he would have clarity to fight. Every waking moment he was not in combat, he trained, so that the next time he could be just a little stronger, a little faster.

Anything that had nothing to do with fighting became irrelevant. An attitude the vraekiri would admire but it was no way to live. Not even beasts could live such a life. Orum, every part of him that his strength was meant to protect, was fading away. In a sense of the word, he was dying.

Kierra had saved him.

Like the critters his daughter had carelessly healed with a touch of her blessed hand, she had given him new life. Torn away the cage of anger and self-depreciation trapping him in a vicious cycle of behavior.

His daughter, the most precious thing in the world, had nothing to do with his strength. He hadn’t achieved her through piling up a mountain of bodies and didn’t need to spill rivers of blood to be happy. With Kierra, he could find contentment in even the most mundane activities. He was a vraekiri, like his father and his father’s father, but strength need not be everything. He could take the longer, softer road to the peak rather than the straight and brutal path.

He had wrestled with himself to find his true path. Now, his daughter had to do the same. Like with him, Morgene had created a violent reality, a cage of blood and death. Kierra could be anything with her talents, but her mother wouldn’t allow her to be anything but the killer the Atainnas had always been. No matter what it cost her.

“I’ll send payment for the steed.” As if it knew it was being spoken about, the faecat beside Orum pawed at the ground. It was a favorite mount in Dusk, where they had no roads besides faint footpaths. He wasn’t confident finding one in the more settled Dawn, as they weren’t popular outside of the province where they were bred.

Riding predators was a very different experience than the more common beast of burdens and a faecat could be very aggressive to riders. They balked at commands and trying to put reins over them more than likely would end with a hand being removed.

Gourd performed quite a feat producing the beast. Orum hadn’t held much hope for the man’s “connections”, but he’d produced a result in just two days. During that time, he’d invited Orum to stay in his home. The man’s family was friendly, if a bit…he didn’t know a word for it that wasn’t insulting. What came to mind was ignorant. They knew nothing beyond their little town and were enamored by the man that had seen the world, or at least far more of it than they had.

All of them had endless questions, especially the youngest boy, so small he didn’t even reach Orum’s waist. It reminded him of an old dream. One inspired by Kierra. He imagined what his life could have been if he left Morgene, gave up on his quest to best her. Found a nice woman whose idea of romance wasn’t gutting a creature, which didn’t exclude him. Have a noisy house full of children, like his darling Kii.

What a beautiful dream.

And maybe still achievable. It wasn’t in him to give up on a quest he had started and Morgene wouldn’t allow him to leave. There was a bond between them, twisted as it was. He had no doubt in his mind that his wife would bury any woman that thought to “take” him. There was only one hope for them both. Orum had to best her.

His daughter had given him another gift in that raising her allowed him to understand Morgene better. Before Kii, he thought she was a creature of blood and slaughter, everything about her tainted by violence. It was only when Morgene had sat Kierra in her lap before a fire and given the young girl a lesson in life that Orum understood a little of his wife’s heart.

To Morgene, to the Atainnas, all things in life had purpose. A role that they were meant to play. A place in the web of fate.

Conflict forged a person. Defined them. All things battled to determine their place in their world, from the ants to the wyverns.

According to his wife’s philosophy, there were four roles. The first was the conqueror. The one who marched against challenges and paved the way for their people. A conqueror was defined by two things; talent and will. Someone with talent and no would crumble in the face of hardship. Someone with will but no talent would fail, no matter their heart. It was only those with natural talent and the will to use it that could rise to the top. They inspired their people, guiding them as the brightest star in the sky.

The second role was the builder. The one who turned the resources accumulated by the conqueror into a home, into something to be admired. They were the ones who turned the bloodthirsty conquerors into something more than beasts by building their legacies. They were the ones who forged the crowns of rulers and the power behind thrones.

The third role was the creative. Those who saw what others could not see, heard what no one else could hear, and redefined the impossible. The ones trapped in the maze of their own minds and haunted by visions of things that had and hadn’t been.

They were volatile and unpredictable, their worth usually a matter of perspective. More often than not, burdens on the conquerors and builders who might never produce anything of value with the resources they consumed. Luxurious people. How many of them a person or group could support was a good gauge of their power and a badge of honor.

Finally, there were the flowers. The soft people. That Morgene not only tolerated but respected, those without strength had been the biggest revelation to Orum. Just as long as they played the role expected of them.

They were nurturers and comforters. In a world full of monsters, they were the only ones the conquerors did not need to fear. The ones who allowed the dominant, raging personalities to have moments of peace. They raised families and became the hearts of every community, offering unique perspectives that someone standing at the top of the world could never understand.

A flower was a conqueror’s greatest treasure. Someone that was meant to be doted on and adored. The fighters would die to protect the flowers, but that care came at a cost.

The nurturers had soft voices. They could speak but never shout. Request, but never order. Where they went, what they wore, and even what they ate weren’t their decisions. They were, in many senses, owned by the conquerors that sheltered them.

Some took the notion much further than others. Only the most extreme adherents to the Atainna philosophy, which he suspected was a nuanced take on the beliefs of the Twilight province, stripped their flowers of their will, but they were expected to obey. A flower that didn’t want to follow another’s will was soon abandoned, left to live their own lives or find a conqueror whose will they could abide.

The roles were not set in stone. A flower, if battered enough, could become a conqueror. A builder, under the right influence, could become a creative. A conqueror, after one too many defeats, could give up violence and become a flower. A person could also be more than one thing, depending on who they were interacting with.

If Orum could defeat Morgene, so thoroughly that she acknowledged him as the superior warrior, or conqueror, then their dynamic would change. She would…soften, or so he thought. And then, he would have the opportunity to know his wife without the conflict that had defined their relationship for so long.

He didn’t know what that looked like, but he was looking forward to finding out.

“This is goodbye then.”

Gourd held out a hand and Orum took it, carefully squeezing until he saw the other man wince, smiling faintly. He felt bad for being amused as the other man discretely flexed his fingers to soothe the lingering ache but a handshake that didn’t hurt a little was disrespectful to the other party.

“Don’t be a stranger. Come by and tell me the end to this epic story.”

“If I survive.”

“Yeah.” Orum held back a sigh at the man brushing off the danger of his quest. No matter how many times he described how vicious Morgene could be, the seaman failed to grasp that his wife would kill him if the mood struck her. “And I’d love to meet this daughter of yours.”

Eyes an even mix of gold and green narrowed as their owner searched for hidden meaning behind the words.

Gourd’s hands came up in defense. “Not like that! Spirit, I’m married. I’ve got a family!”

So the man said but he hadn’t seen his Kii. Her looks were the one area Orum was glad she took after her mother in. Gourd’s wife was a lovely woman, but she couldn’t compare to the demon that still attracted him while on death’s door.

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His daughter was even more beguiling, full of charm rather than scorn. The poor man’s invitation might be motivated by good intentions, but they would be tested when he saw any woman with Atainna blood.

“Next time, we’ll share a proper drink. Clan brewed.” Whatever else that was said about the Twilight clans, they were masters at any craft that involved bowls, barrels, and pots. What they considered piss-poor drink made anything else taste like literal piss.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Orum turned before either of them could remember they were barely more than strangers and the farewell could become strange. In one smooth motion, he leaped onto the faecat’s back and spurred it into a sprint. Startled shouts echoed throughout the town as the pair rocketed through the streets but not for long.

As always, civilization gave way to the forest. Orum could feel many gazes on his back as they ran. The yowl of his mount was enough to turn most away, the faecat’s ability to end pointless confrontations another reason it was favored in Dusk.

Those strong enough to ignore its cry were experienced enough to know a fight they couldn’t win.

While he was faster on his own two feet, riding allowed him to preserve his strength. Orum was confident against most things the forest could throw at him but there were plenty of beings throughout the provinces that could kill him. Plenty more if he did something as stupid as dropping his guard.

It took ten days to reach Dusk. Orum didn’t care much for his third name, but it came in use. The guards that protected the border between provinces let him pass without detaining him for even a moment. Had he been anyone else, he would be lucky to be released in a matter of months. The Atainnas had many enemies and were as territorial as any beast.

Dusk being the largest province, it took another fifteen days before he reached Sa’Flori. The capital was another week away, but Morgene preferred the small settlement established by her ancestors when they first came to the province. All the family did, as no matter where they scattered, Atainnas always found their way to their home. Not even the reigning queen was an exception.

Normally, when Orum challenged his wife, he marched right up to her tree and bellowed for her to face him, his powerful voice carrying for leagues. This time, he prowled the outskirts of the village, stalking the forest for one of its temporary residents.

Orum knelt at the base of the tree he tied his mount to and channeled his mana. In his mind, he imagined a spell he’d done so many times it was almost reflex. His ears tingled, growing larger and sharper, his green skin darkening to a dull gray. He closed his eyes and killed the rest of his senses to better focus on the one.

The hunters produced by the village were good. They were taught to never be seen, never be heard, and never leave a trace. The masters of the hunt that worked directly for the Atainna family were ghosts. They could disappear into the forest so long that their own families forgot about them.

But few ever grew to the point that they could transcend mortal limits. No matter how carefully one stepped, they couldn’t muffle the sound of their heartbeat or their breath as it expanded their chest.

There were many ways to use the physical affinity. The simplest way was to use it to empower the body but there were different levels of application. Using mana to temporary boost one’s strength was a world away from magically changing the body, making small permanent changes that eventually created living legends.

Shapeshifting required a level of mastery beyond that. Melding, while powerful, was ultimately simple. It required exhaustive knowledge of the subject and their species to properly guide their growth but if it was done in increments as it was meant, any healer could manage it.

Shapeshifting was much the same except for two factors. Where melding was slow change over time, something the body was accustomed to, shapeshifting was dynamic change. Large amounts of energy expended in a short amount of time. The spells were also twice as complicated as any changes needed to be reversed. Some could contain thousands of variables and a mistake with a single one could be fatal.

The second thing that made shapeshifting such a difficult discipline to master was the sheer breadth of knowledge required to be effective. Learning about one’s own species could take years. Learning how an individual differed from the common denominators that defined that species could take several more years.

For each form the caster wanted to make use of, it took several more years of study. First to understand the creature, then to understand how to blend one form with another, and finally to master the new abilities.

Such was the enormity of the task that some chose to only emulate one form, choosing the speed and intimacy with one set of abilities over the diversity that shapeshifting was known for.

It took Orum five months to build a spell to change his ears to those of the elunere, a rare species of bat native to Twilight, having plenty of experience with such. It took ten years to effectively learn to use them.

In his mind, a picture was painted from the faint sounds of the forest. A skill the creature the ears belonged to had an instinct for but Orum had to figure out on his own. Things got easier when he figured out the trick of silencing the rest of his senses, but it had taken decades to become comfortable with the ears and he still didn’t believe he had mastered them to the level of the original owner.

It took seconds to find a target. The next moment, Orum’s ears returned to normal and the rest of his senses returned. He patted the faecat on the rump before walking off into the trees, moving carefully to avoid startling his prey.

Once he found the bush the hunter was slumbering under, he grabbed the man by the ankles and dragged him out of his hiding space. A dagger tried to stab him in the face, but dark green scales covered the skin it would have pierced, deflecting the blade.

His hand covered with green mana, Orum punched the prone man in the throat. “Calm down,” he said as he deflected another blade and dropped a knee into the man’s stomach. “Hm. You look a little young. I don’t suppose you recognize the name Orum Atainna?”

The hunter froze, his dirty brow furrowing as he stared up at his attacker. His expression showed his confusion as he relaxed, one hand massaging his neck. Orum guessed that he was indeed too young to recognize his face, but he didn’t seem willing to risk fighting the Dusk legend. Or maybe he didn’t want to fight while struggling to breathe, his breaths coming in short pants.

“I apologize for attacking you, but I know how you boys are.” Orum slowly grabbed the hunter’s hand and ran a diagnostic spell. Then he fixed the damage he’d caused, the spell taking more strength than usual as the hunter’s own mana fought the intrusion.

The younger elf’s eyes became much less guarded as his pain disappeared. He sat up and inclined his head toward Orum. “They say that Mountainblood Orum is a savage fighter, not a healer.”

“It’s all the same affinity. I have a task for you, hunter.”

“And who are you to give me tasks?” the young hunter said with an arrogant tilt of his head.

Orum had the urge to backhand the cocky bastard. He might not be as enamored with strength as he once was but he could break the boy who didn’t look a day over forty like a dry twig. Respecting that wasn’t a matter of belief, it was a matter of survival instincts. Something the hunter must lack. That had to mean he had talent if he had survived so long.

Orum wanted to talk to Morgene before things came to violence. Taking away one of her toys wasn’t the way to start a pleasant conversation. “My third name is Atainna. I don’t want to hurt you boy…and I don’t need to. I may have married into the reigning family but remember who I am married to. To insult me to is insult Morgene Atainna.”

The hunter grimaced at the very thought. “How may I assist you?”

“I need you to take a message to Morgene. Tell her I am waiting for her.”

“…that’s all?”

“That’s all. But I would appreciate all due haste.”

Orum stared at the hunter until he climbed to his feet and darted off. Orum walked off at a much more sedate pace, returning to his mount. He took a seat beside the beast and shared pieces of dried jerky with it as he waited for his wife and possibly his reckoning.

-

As questionable as their relationship could be at times, it was undeniable that there was mutual respect between them. He had sent a third party to deliver a message to meet for no specified reason, but Morgene still answered as promptly as someone in her position could.

The sun was still high in the sky when something approached Orum making so much noise it had to be deliberate. The faecat growled as a woman rounded a tree opposite of them.

It had been over a decade since Orum last saw his wife. By no will of his own, his heart thundered with excitement at her appearance.

Skin the dark purple of twilight. The same silver hair as his beloved daughter. Emerald green eyes, their narrower shape adding power to the woman’s glare. A face full of natural arrogance and sharp angles softened by round ears and full lips.

To his surprise, Morgene hadn’t come ready for a fight, no sign of any armor or weapons on her person. She wore a sleeveless white vest paired with a black and silver skirt. A long slit along one side made the garment flow with every step but it was never snagged on the shrubbery. It was as if the forest didn’t dare impede her, regardless of lacking an affinity to influence nature.

Her bare feet stomped through the forest without any of her usual grace until she came to a stop before him. The faecat snarled at the intruder. Sharp green eyes turned to it and its growls turned to whimpers, its sharp ears lying flat on its head as it retreated.

“You’re scaring my beast,” Orum grumbled, stepping in front of the beast and giving it a comforting pat on the neck.

“I’m teaching it an important life lesson.” She paused, blatantly looking Orum over and despite himself, he couldn’t help standing a little straighter. “You look well.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Given how long you were away, I half thought you were suffering from grievous wounds.”

“You know better than anyone that nothing keeps me down for long…something I thought you would be eager to test again.”

Morgene chuckled, the sound caressing Orum’s ears. “I also came prepared for you to immediately go for my throat.”

“My journey taught me much about myself.” Orum felt a sharp spike of anticipation. He didn’t know what had come over his wife but she was being…agreeable. During his travels, Orum had searched for a new way to fight. The creatures that inhabited Green Mountain were, racially, rather weak. The clans survived because they didn’t fight any battles that could be avoided and only fought when they had an advantage. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“And I with you.” She held up her hands, emphasizing her lack of weapons. “About your favorite subject.”

He picked up on her meaning immediately, body tensing. “Did something happen to Kii?” Orum felt his temper rapidly mounting as his hands balled into fists. If his daughter was hurt—

“Relax. You always babied that girl too much. She toddled into a nest of blackvenoms every day for a week because she liked the taste of their legs but the day you discovered it, you destroyed the nest down to the last bug.”

Morgene shook her head. “Kierra is perfectly safe. Better than ever, I suppose. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve ended her punishment. She’s free to walk the world as she pleases.”

“…what?” Orum should have been happy but all he felt was an overwhelming sense of defeat. He’d swam across an ocean to free his daughter from her mother only to return and find out she didn’t need a single minute of his painstaking efforts. Had Morgene seen the errors of her ways? Unlikely.

Kierra must have done what her mother wanted. As always, the woman had gotten her way. It also counted as his failure, as his desperate quest had been both to free Kierra and to protect her heart. “Where is she?” he asked bitterly.

“Gone.”

“Couldn’t wait to get away from you?”

“Couldn’t leave fast enough.” She smiled and Orum felt something in his gut tighten. That was her bloodthirsty smile. “Took her human and ran off to that kingdom of apes without looking back. Love really does make one silly.”

Orum’s bad feeling became worse. “Love?” he asked quietly, fighting the obvious conclusion.

His wife’s smile grew larger. “Oh, yes. While you were away, our daughter formed a union with a human woman named Lourianne Tome. It’s quite a remarkable story. Through some magical mishap, Lou found herself in Kierra’s prison and the two immediately formed a connection. To be with her, Kierra faced her fears, completing her trial only months after they’d met. Inspiring, no?”

Orum grit his teeth as his skin flushed darker green.

“Their union took place the morning after they returned. Kierra’s blade bearer, you remember Rondel? The one that followed on her heels like an eager puppy? Well, he didn’t take kindly to her finally choosing a partner. Little bastard stabbed her through the heart.”

“WHAT?!”

“Calm, Orum. Do you think I did nothing after a piece of trash tried to kill her? He’s dead and died in so much pain, he welcomed the end with grateful tears.”

That did nothing to calm his anger. While he was away, someone had stabbed his precious baby. Someone had stolen her. A human woman of all creatures, taking his treasure and absconding to another continent.

“Ah, don’t worry about descendants. You know how talented Kierra is and they could barely keep their hands off one another. Even in front of me! I give it a decade at most before the next Atainna is welcomed into the world. How about that, husband? Are you excited to hold another Kii in your arms?”

Orum snapped.

The warrior’s roar startled the forest, sending every creature that heard it running for their lives.